


Fix You

by non_tiembo_mala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel approved, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Castiel Knows, Coda, Episode: s05e14 My Bloody Valentine, First Time, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Love that heals, M/M, Schmoop, Seriously it gets pretty schmoopy I'm not even a little sorry, Soulmates, Wincest - Freeform, handjobs, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 02:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3960928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their encounter with Famine, the boys are in dire straits. With Dean left shaken by the horseman's taunts - which rang truer than he'd like to admit - and Sam juiced up on demon blood again, Dean is at a loss. He has no idea how to move forward, or where they're meant to go from here. Then again, they’ve always had each other - perhaps their salvation isn't as far away as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fix You

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this came to me when I was rewatching My Bloody Valentine and Famine tells Dean he can't fill the dark nothingness inside of him, not even with sex. I instantly thought, well, that's because it hasn't been Sam. 
> 
> And so began the descent into my first attempt at Wincest. I wasn't sure I'd be brave enough to post, but my incredible beta @Dancing_Adrift is so supportive and encouraging. Without her I very seriously would get little done, and I more than likely wouldn't be bold enough to put this out there. So my infinite thanks to her, and I hope y'all enjoy!

Dean was leaning on one of the supports at the bottom of the stairs, just outside the panic room in Bobby’s basement. His body was tender and aching from when the demons had tossed him around the Biggerson’s. His lip was swollen and tight where the bleeding had stopped and dried, as was the drying gash that tugged the skin above his left eye. He took a deep breath, felt his bruised ribs protest as his chest filled, and shook the bottle of whiskey that dangled from his right hand. Sam was screaming.

Behind the locked iron door of the panic room, his brother was tied down to the busted old bed for his own protection. Much like when he’d instructed Dean to lock up him up in the motel before Dean and Cas went to take on Famine, Sam went willingly into lockdown at Bobby’s. As soon as he’d ripped the smokey black demons out of the decrepit-looking horseman, Sam had stopped being able to meet his brother’s gaze. With the blood smeared on his face, Dean had found it difficult to look at Sam, too. He hadn’t been angry this time. He hadn’t even been disappointed - well, not in Sam, anyway. This all came down to Famine, but it had killed Dean to see his little brother like that, at the mercy of all that evil. After last time, he had hoped it was something they would never have to go through again. And yet here they were.

Sam had climbed into the back seat of the Impala outside the Biggerson’s without saying a word, leaving Cas to share the front seat with Dean. It was an unusual arrangement - Sam was always shotgun - but everyone understood. As much as Dean’s heart had been breaking, he knew Sam; He would be twisted up inside with guilt and failure and disappointment, even though the fault belonged to Famine. Their encounter with the horseman had been hard on both of them. Dean had wanted nothing more than to take Sam in his arms, both to tell him it was okay - that he understood and forgave him - and also, selfishly, to ease his own feelings of desolation in a way that only holding Sam could do. But Dean had stopped himself from reaching out, having noticed how Sam had flinched when he’d started to move towards him. Sam had left Famine’s ring for Dean and Cas to collect and quickly made his way to the Impala. Cas remained respectfully quiet, and Dean had driven all the way back to Bobby’s in silence, wishing for anything but. As he’d sat behind the wheel with nobody saying anything, Sam refusing to even make eye contact in the rear-view mirror, he’d withdrawn inside himself.

 _That's one deep, dark nothing you got there, Dean. Can't fill it, can you? Not with food or drink. Not even with sex._ Famine’s words had echoed in Dean’s mind and seemed to reverberate in his hollowness; there were truths in them that Dean had been running from, refusing to acknowledge. When Famine had touched him - read his soul it seemed - it was like Dean was thrown back in the pit, all the tormenting and twisting of his soul screaming through him, bursting like hot, bloody fireworks that consumed him from the inside out. His time topside had somehow since managed to numb the fierceness of those traumas, but Famine ignited the scars, reopened the wounds and left them bleeding and fresh. Once they had taken the horseman’s ring, the ferocity had ebbed and dulled again, but the emptiness Dean felt seemed to ache all the more. _I can see inside you, Dean. I can see how broken you are, how defeated. You can't win, and you know it. You're not hungry, Dean, because inside, you're already dead._ Dead. The word had resonated in Dean’s chest and left him feeling shaken. Dean’s eyes had glistened for a good portion of the drive as he fought to stay above water, desperate not fall into the abyss that was trying to claim him. If Cas had noticed while he sat mutely beside him, he gave no indication.

When they had finally reached Bobby’s, Sam said nothing and walked, head down, to the basement and directly into the panic room. Bobby’s brows had creased with worry as he looked from Sam’s back disappearing down the stairs to Dean’s face, which showed him everything he needed to know with its broken, worn expression. With a few words explanation to Bobby, Dean had followed Sam downstairs and found his brother sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting, his face in his hands. An all-too-familiar ache had swelled in Dean’s chest. Dean was used to a lifetime of emotions - welcome or otherwise - when it came to his little brother. But seeing him like that, knowing what he was about to go through, it made Dean feel like he was breaking in two, shattered right down the middle.

Either Sam had been lost inside himself, or he was still trying adamantly not to look at his brother, because it wasn’t until Dean had crouched in front of him and tenderly laid his hand on Sam’s shoulder that he seemed to notice he wasn’t alone and looked up. His eyes had been shining and his face was wet, and when he finally looked into his brother’s eyes, Sam had looked so wrecked...even now, Dean still wasn’t sure how he’d held it together. For Sam, he guessed. Only because Sam had needed him to, it could be the only explanation. Whatever Sam needed, Dean always provided; that was just who he was. Sam had started to shake his head, his mouth opening with the million things - apologies - he felt he needed to give, but Dean hadn’t let him.

“C’mon, Sam. You can’t… can’t blame yourself, little brother. Let’s just get this over with, ok? Lay back, now…” Dean had stood and waited for Sam to swing his legs up on to the bed and lay down, closing his eyes in shame and humiliation as he shifted his wrists and ankles to where they needed to be. Dean had been infinitely gentle as he took the restraints and bound his brother, making sure the demon blood couldn’t toss him around the room like last time and do him even greater injury. Dean had tried not to linger, but he took some solace for himself in the brief touches, especially at Sam’s wrists where his fingertips could light on his skin, warm, familiar, and alive. He’d stood when he was finished and had looked down at his brother with dread in his stomach for what was coming.

Dean had wrestled with all the things he wished he could do to help as he took in the painful sight of his brother bound before him, his eyes squeezed shut and his face turned away. Dean had settled on reaching forward to tuck some rebellious hair off Sam’s forehead and behind his ear out of his face. He’d rested his hand on Sam’s head for just a moment.

“You’re gonna be okay, Sammy. I promise.” It had been barely a whisper. Sam had shown no sign if he’d heard or not. Dean had stroked Sam’s hair back before he turned to leave, locking the door behind him and pretending not to hear the small, broken sound that had escaped Sam the minute Dean’s feet were on the far side of the threshold. Dean had gone straight for Bobby’s nearest stash of whiskey and had set himself at his post at the foot of the staircase. Half a bottle and a couple of hours later, Sam’s cries had finally grown louder and more anguished.

“Let me out of here, _please_! Help!”

Sam’s screams issuing out from the panic room brought Dean back to the moment. He knew it wouldn’t all stay with his brother when the dust finally settled, but hearing him cry out shook Dean deep to his core, in his very bones. Right now, he knew Sam felt abandoned. The worsening withdrawal from the demon blood robbed him of his ability to think or feel clearly, and all he was feeling now was loneliness and pain; pain that Dean was leaving him to endure by himself. Dean could hardly stand it.

Dean wished with every fiber, with each molecule, with the very atoms making up his being, that this could just be simple like when they were kids. Sam would wake, sometimes with screams or tears, from some horrible nightmare and Dean would crawl into bed and pull him close, pet his hair or rub circles into his back to calm him down, and they’d fall asleep together, tangled up and safe. Whether Sam stopped having nightmares or they just grew out of it, Dean never did figure out. He assumed it must’ve been the latter. He always knew it wasn’t exactly normal - most brothers weren’t quite so close - but then, he also understood there had hardly ever been anything normal about their lives. Dean had struggled when Sam started to get older - in more ways than one. He’d always been afraid of Sam pushing him away, and of course he did end up leaving Dean for Stanford. Dean missed the closeness of their childhood - he had for years, even before Sam left. It might’ve started as a comfort for Sam, but being wrapped up with his little brother was the safest, calmest place Dean had ever known. Especially since coming back from Hell, Dean found himself wanting more and more to crawl into his brother’s arms and into that sanctuary, the only place he’d felt real refuge. Listening to Sam call out for him in agony now from the panic room, it twisted his stomach and made him feel a little dizzy; he wanted nothing more than to be that same sanctuary for Sam, but he knew Sam had stopped needing him like that long before he ran away to school.

Swimming in his thoughts and memories, floating around the growing void inside himself, Dean lost track of how long he stood there. He contemplated finally sitting down on the bottom step but instead brought the bottle of whiskey he’d been dangling at his side to his lips and took a long pull. He closed his eyes against the burn and Sam’s cries both, leaning his head back on the beam behind him.

“That's not him in there. Not really.” Castiel had been standing off in the shadows, keeping a silent vigil over both boys, but he finally ventured to speak. It saddened him to see the Winchesters suffer so profoundly but trying to help them was so difficult. He never knew what was right to say, and what would set them off. Dean especially had trouble accepting help or dealing with his pain.

“I know,” was all Dean said in response. He didn’t look at Cas, who was watching him intently. He took another swig of whiskey as Sam screamed his name from the other side of the wall.

“Dean, Sam just has to get it out of his system. Then he'll be-” Cas tried again, wanting sincerely to ease his friend. He was unsurprised when Dean shut him down.

“Listen, I just, uh...I just need to get some air.” Dean’s body complained loudly when he took his first step away from the post he’d been leaning on. His legs had gone stiff from standing and he hadn’t noticed the tingling in his toes until he started to move. None of it slowed him down. Resigned and with a very heavy heart, Dean made his way up the stairs and out into the scrap yard, whiskey bottle still in hand.  

It was well into the night, but between the lights from the house and brightness of the moon, Dean could see easily as he navigated the maze of junk cars to his Baby. The sky was clear and littered with twinkling stars but water clung to the grass and the surfaces of the vehicles from a recent rain. It smelled crisp and earthy, fresh. There was a chill in the air, but Dean didn’t notice with his layers and whiskey fueled glow keeping him warm. He found the Impala and put a hand on her roof to steady himself. Dean was overwhelmed. His baby brother was hurting and he couldn’t stop hearing the horseman’s unnerving voice in his head. _That's one deep, dark nothing you got there, Dean. Can't fill it, can you? I can see how broken you are._ Dean looked at the whiskey in his hand for a moment but didn’t take another drink. Echoes of Sam’s cries from the panic room played over and over in his mind, warring with Famine’s words and renewed memories from Hell for control of Dean’s thoughts. He let his eyes drift to the stars above him, partly in a fight against the tears that were welling up, and partly out of complete and utter desperation.

Dean was not a praying man. He never really had been. Faith like that had always been more Sam’s thing. And with all the supernatural crap they dealt with, including angels who generally fell on the side of giant dicks, Dean didn’t really know what to think in terms of what _possible_ higher power might actually be out there. But with his brother suffering through his detox, Dean feeling more broken than he thought possible, and the apocalypse on their horizon, it sure felt like desperate enough times to Dean.

“Please…” He started, his lip quivering with the effort it took to stay in control of his emotions. His tears were about to spill over and he looked up at the sky through wet lashes, blinking to keep them if he could.

“I can’t…” He couldn’t find the words. Dean took a haggard breath and the first tear slipped from his eye and drew a glistening trail down his cheek.

“I need some help.” He pled to whomever might be listening, his heart wrung out and his face shining wet with tears as he finally gave in to them. He felt so _lost_. Dean slipped the almost empty bottle into the Impala’s back seat through the slightly open window, folded his arms on her roof to rest his head there, and let himself cry.

Dean didn’t realize he’d started to doze off as he stood, supported by his Baby, until he found himself in what could only be a dream. Where he was, leaning into the Impala with his back exposed to the world, Sam quietly came up behind him. He slipped his arms around Dean’s front and pressed up against him, his body sliding into place from feet to hips to shoulders, and rested his face in the crook of Dean’s neck. Dean melted into him, letting his body feel heavy against his brother’s, and he took in the shelter of Sam’s hands as they lovingly moved over his chest and stomach, keeping him close, warming him.

“Dean…” Sam whispered, and it sounded like a smile; that perfect, beautiful, dimpled smile that Dean wished never left his brother’s face. Dean let his head fall back and lean against Sam’s, and the aches and emptiness seemed to fade away between them. Sam tilted his head and his lips, soft, ghosted over Dean’s jaw, barely touching.

“Sammy…” Dean breathed, his eyes fluttering with the sensation.

The crunch of gravel snapped Dean awake. His head flew up, still having been rested on his arms on top of the Impala. He suddenly felt cold all over, except for a flush in his cheeks and the heat that was pooled at the base of his spine and responsible for a sudden, uncomfortable tightness in his jeans. He groaned inwardly. He’d managed some success lately _not_ thinking about Sam like that, and getting caught up in those thoughts again was the last thing he needed right now. He put his head back down on his forearms and rolled it from side to side, chastising himself and trying to think about anything _but_ his brother that might ease the pressure behind his zipper.  

“Dean?”

“Jesus, Bobby!” Dean was startled and jumped at the sound of Bobby’s voice. He spoke softly and was still a ways back, but it must have been his footsteps that pulled Dean from his reverie. Dean was thankful for the extra moment Bobby had given him, and for the darkness.

“Sorry, kiddo. Not tryin’ to jump start your heart or nothin’. You’ve been out here a while, wanted to check on ya. Sam’s, uh. He’s quieted down a bit. Might finally be sleepin’.”

Dean sighed, the bone-deep weariness making him feel stiff as he shifted his weight a little from one foot to the other, relieved that the effect of his dream was no longer quite so evident between his legs. His breath swirled in the air and he shivered once, his body acknowledging the chill and the diminishing effects of the whiskey. He rubbed his hands into his eyes. Bobby spoke again before Dean could respond to him.

“Son, maybe you ought'a think about getting some shut eye yourself.” Bobby’s tone was easy, knowing after a lifetime of practice how to tread carefully with his boys.

“I’ve been out here long enough, Bobby. I ain’t leavin’ him.” Dean’s voice was rough as he answered. He leaned over to reach into the back seat and retrieve what little was left of the whiskey. Bobby knew better than to push him, so he just nodded. Bobby followed Dean back into the house, a quiet shadow of support. Dean was putting on a brave face, but Bobby could see how he guarded his one side just so, nursing ribs that would no doubt be a myriad of colors by morning. Bobby made a mental note to get some things together and force some TLC on Dean tomorrow. He sighed deeply as Dean disappeared back downstairs, and hoped the boy would get some sleep.

Cas was still standing guard outside the panic room when Dean got to the bottom of the stairs. Dean didn’t say anything but Cas read the inquiry on his face plain as day.

“I believe he’s fallen asleep, Dean. He hasn’t cried out in the last 37 minutes and though his heart rate is still elevated it is finally even.”

Dean couldn’t help but let out a chuckle at Cas’ preciseness, the always comedic bluntness of his angelic friend.

“That’s uh, good, Cas, thanks.” Dean gave Cas a weak smile, one corner of his mouth turning up slightly with the quick glance he shot his way. Then, giving into his aches, he decided to sit down. He went up to the big iron door and leaned on it gently, careful not to make noise, and slid down it. He sat on the floor, resting his elbows on knees bent close to his chest, his arms extended and the mostly empty bottle of whiskey still in hand. Some minutes passed in silence, and Cas was still hovering where he stood.

“Listen, Cas, you can- you don’t have to stick around, man. Nothing much goin’ on. I’ll uh, call. If I- if something comes up.” Dean didn’t look at Cas as he spoke. He had his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the cold metal behind him.

Cas contemplated his friend for a moment. He could see into people in a way that humans couldn’t quite perceive, and as in-tune as he was to the Winchesters after a lifetime of observation, it was even easier to sense what was going on with them. The thoughts and feelings of humans were visible to Cas like the vivid Aurora Borealis, a swirling mix of colours and light, abstract at best but with practice, decipherable to a point. Dean and Sam were highly familiar to him now, even the shades and subtle tints of colours and waves mostly understood. In Dean’s case at the moment, all the things worrying at his mind were flashing bright and angry and hurt, not able to settle on what thing of many upset him the most. Dean’s concern and preoccupation for his brother, the most constant and recognizable of Dean’s thoughts which manifested as various blues and greens - not surprisingly echoing the iris’ of Sam’s eyes - flashed brilliantly and strong amongst the other threads of light. There were warring shades of smokey blacks and fiery reds that Cas could only interpret as hell-related hurts, more prominent than he’d seen them in a long time. Underneath it all, under all the other thoughts and colours, distinctly interwoven with the blues and greens of Sam, was the same shimmering gold vein that was always present in one way or another. It had taken Cas a while to decipher this - it was more particular than anything he’d encountered before while monitoring human lives - though it had been clear to him very early on that it was also tied to Sam. Cas eventually came to the conclusion that those particularly bright lights represented the profound and somewhat unique love Dean had for his brother. Though he could tell Dean tried to dim it on occasion, it was persistent and shone all the more brightly when Dean was in Sam’s presence, when the younger Winchester smiled or laughed or leaned on his brother; it blazed strongly and was uninhibitedly vivid when he would - more often than not - dream about Sam at night. Whatever rusty coloured inklings of shame Dean had sometimes mingled into that gold, they could never quite hold their ground. Cas had grown to find comfort in the consistency and purity of Dean’s love for Sam. He was inclined to believe that it was something about Sam and Dean _together_ that gave them their edge, that let them stand a chance against all the evil they constantly faced and all the talk of destiny and fate.

Cas took a step towards Dean and extended a hand to lightly touch his shoulder. For a moment, he let himself experience the feelings of exhaustion that weighed down the elder Winchester, so that he could better understand what Dean needed. The feelings of anguish - bold and glittering crimson - were blended throughout all of Dean’s emotions, even how he felt about Sam. Stepping away from Dean then, leaving his friend to his preferred solitude, not for the first time Cas wondered how much brighter Dean might shine if he knew that Cas saw the same golden veins of feeling, an almost perfect reflection, always illuminating Sam’s thoughts as well.

Dean heard the telltale whoosh and soft fluttering of Cas’ departure. He was more and more comfortable with Cas, who certainly didn’t seem to be going anywhere far any time soon, but he felt instantly more at ease. He instinctively breathed deeply, relieved, and was rewarded with sharp pains in his left side. He responded to the pain by drinking down the remainder of the whiskey and then set the empty bottle down on the floor as far away as his arm could reach without him leaning over. _God_ , he was tired, and _fuck_ everything hurt. He strained his ears for a moment, anxiously listening to any sounds from the panic room behind him. The silence was at first reassuring but then he had to wrestle down the beginnings of mild panic, desperate to hear the calming sounds of Sam’s breathing, too quiet now to make it through the reinforced walls. In the empty silence of the basement, indeed the whole house, Dean felt the deep dark tugging at him, heavy in the bottom of his stomach. Fighting it, he let his mind wander back to the memory of his earlier dream, the imagined ghost of Sam’s physical closeness the only thing that helped stave off the worst of how he felt. Only a few breaths later, Dean succumbed to sleep, dreaming of his brother’s hands warm on his skin.

\---

Consciousness came to Dean slowly, the sounds that woke him first permeating his thoughts as if part of his dream, though he already couldn’t remember what it had been about. Eyes blinking in the darkness, it took him a moment to situate himself. He was on the ground outside Bobby’s panic room, and sometime while he'd slept, someone - Bobby - must’ve come down and draped an old blanket around him, tucked between his shoulders and the wall. His knees had fallen to one side while he slept, and as he righted them his whole body screamed with the effort of it; his limbs were rigid and tight and the aches in his ribs and back were more pronounced as the bruising had set in, throbbing now even with his shallow breaths. Then he noticed again the sounds that woke him, and his whole world narrowed to those alone. Quiet, barely audible through the heavy iron door, were the heartbreaking sounds of his little brother crying; they were not silent tears, but not choking sobs, either. Just the steady sounds of sniffling and short breaths, familiar and reminiscent of many times before, seemingly a lifetime ago.

Dean didn’t know how long he’d been sleeping, didn’t know where Sam was in the process, but in his drowsy state he was helpless to resist the impulse to go to his brother. He couldn’t keep in the groan as he painfully stood, gripping the handle of the door tightly to help lift himself to his feet. Dean turned the vault-like lock on the door, wincing at the loud creaks it elicited, and didn’t hesitate to swing it open the moment the lock disengaged. Sam was as Dean had left him, bound to the bed, with some colour at his wrists where he’d clearly been fighting the restraints. He was sleeping, though his face looked pained and he was twisted slightly away from the door, as if he wanted to curl up on his side but was too weak to tug any tighter at the ties the kept him flat. Dean didn’t think twice before he walked right to the edge of the bed and gently started to undo the restraints on Sam’s left arm and both feet.

“Sam? Sammy?” He spoke his brother’s name softly, not wanting to startle him. Sam didn’t wake but as soon as the ties on his left side were undone he rolled to his right side, curling into himself, folding his never-ending legs so that his knees were high and near his chest, his left arm moving to hug them tightly.

“God, Sammy… Hey, man. Sam? C’mon…” Sam still didn’t wake. Dean laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder, pressing his fingers in a little, and found his shirt sweat-dampened and cool. He noticed then that Sam was shivering. Dean gingerly took his hand back from his brother and went to collect the blanket that was piled on the floor outside the panic room. When he stepped back inside, he paused for just a moment before pulling the heavy iron door all the way closed behind him. As Dean threw out the blanket to let it fall over his brother, Sam’s breath caught in his chest and he let out sob, tears still escaping from his closed eyes, some pooling on the bridge of his nose before running over the edge.

“Sam…” Dean tucked the blanket around his brother, under his back, and pulled it over his shoulders. He smoothed back the hair on Sam’s face and let his hand linger there, let the pad of his thumb rub a little at Sam’s temple. “Hey, wake up, Sammy.”

Leaning over him, Dean could see the movement behind his brother’s eyes, and he couldn’t help but wonder what he might be dreaming, what terrors he was facing to make him cry like this. His chest tightened at the sight, and with the worry that Sam didn’t seem to hear his voice. His tears had slowed though, and Dean continued absentmindedly running his hand through his hair and stroking the side of his face. Dean watched as his brother’s expression started to soften under his touch, his eyes resting shut instead of being squeezed so, and his mouth which had been pulled tight relaxed and parted slightly, his breath coming easier.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean said it more to himself than anything, bordering on a groan, knowing that every minute he stayed beside his brother made it less and less likely he’d be able to tear himself away. Their encounter with Famine had left Dean bare, all of his painstakingly crafted Winchester walls knocked down to leave him vulnerable and exposed. If he let his thoughts drift away from Sam for even a moment, all he could hear was the rough, aged voice of the horseman ringing in his ears: _That's one deep, dark nothing you got there_. _I can see how broken you are_. So inside, he was clinging to Sam like a life preserver - the only thing buoyant enough to keep his head over the dark, pitching waves - but outside, he was fighting his need to _actually_ cling to Sam. He could feel it as certainly as he knew anything: if he held his hand to Sam’s face any longer, he might not be able to let go. Reluctantly, Dean withdrew his hand and searched the room for a place where he could keep watch. He didn't get far before his attention was drawn quickly back to his brother. Sam’s breath caught and his face was once again drawn tight with distress.

“ _Dean_ …” he moaned, and it sounded like a plea. His big brother almost lost it.

“Sammy?” Dean was kneeling beside the bed in the next heartbeat and let his hand fall on Sam’s shoulder. His brows knit together as he watched Sam’s face, still sleeping. With Dean’s hand spread warm on his shoulder, Sam visibly calmed again, making a small sound in the back of his throat that sent shivers of warm sparks off somewhere low in Dean’s stomach. Dean groaned inwardly, cursing the familiar feeling. _Jesus, man. Get. It. Together_. He chided himself, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Sam’s face, or his hand off his shoulder. He debated for a moment. It was clear that Sam was resting easier with Dean close, and God knew that Dean felt wrecked, and Sam was had always been his only safe harbour, and- _Fuck it_.

A moment later, Dean had lifted the edge of the blanket and was cautiously easing his weight onto the narrow bed, the old springs creaking as they dipped under him. His heart was racing - surely he’d catch hell for this when Sam woke in the morning - but he was too tired, too broken, and too strung-out with worry to care. He couldn’t damned-well be expected to leave his little brother cold and crying in here all by himself, could he? He told himself it was for Sam, but knew without a doubt as he tucked his body up against his brother’s - his left arm folded underneath him and his right sliding naturally across the front of Sam’s narrow waist to pull him in close - that it was as much for him as anything. With his chest melding seamlessly to Sam’s back, Dean’s face was drawn close too, his mouth almost brushing the exposed skin at the base of Sam’s neck. He couldn’t help tilting his head up just so, edging his nose into Sam’s hair, and breathing him in deeply. It was all Sam - earthy and a bit mineral from the sweat that matted his hair and had dried, cool, on his skin; underneath it, the familiar scents of their generic detergent, their bar soap and Sam’s subtle aftershave - and it felt like home. Dean’s exhale was shaky and he tried not to think too much about how he involuntarily squeezed Sam to him a little tighter, or how he was suddenly struck with the urge to cry - not in pain or sadness, but with overwhelming relief. He choked it down, shut his eyes firmly, and forced himself to breathe slowly. Sam’s body had been cool against him, but Dean could already feel it warming wherever they touched, and he hadn’t realized how tense he was until Sam started to go lax in his arms.

“De…” he barely breathed it - he was still sleeping for chrissakes - but Sam stirred a little, shifting, and his left arm let go of his knees and found its way to Dean’s arm on his stomach, unconsciously threading his fingers between his brother’s. Dean had to bite his lip to keep in whatever embarrassing sound was threatening to issue from his mouth. Between his name almost inconceivably on Sam’s lips and the subtle shifting of Sam’s hips as they were nestled against his own, Dean could feel the blood in his body rushing south. _Shit, shit, shit_. He should’ve _known_ this would happen - how could it not?! - but he hadn’t been thinking that far ahead when he impulsively crawled into bed with his broken, detoxing little brother. If he had to think about it - and he was trying desperately not to - he would’ve blamed it on the sudden lack of blood to his brain but despite the dire circumstances he couldn’t bring himself to pull his hips back from his brother. Instead he tried to think of all things he could to counter the unnaturally good feeling of his baby brother pressing into his lap. He was relieved when it started to work, never letting him get more than half-hard. It’d been ages since he had to do that, since it’d been ages since he and Sam had shared a bed. Before Sam started pushing him away - when they would still do this despite it more than likely being inappropriate - Dean had been an expert at avoiding that problem, keeping a bunch of unpleasant, decidedly unsexy thoughts set aside and ready to use every night when Sam would first curl up in his arms.

Dean let out a silent sigh as he felt his blood return to its more normal distribution. Sam was sleeping soundlessly now, his body heavy, soft and warm against Dean’s and his breathing steady and even. Dean shamelessly burrowed into the pillow they shared, keeping as close as he could to the space at the base of his brother’s neck,  a perfect resting place that seemed made just for him. When he finally let go of the stranglehold he’d been keeping on his thoughts, for the first time since they left Famine Dean’s mind wasn’t immediately filled with memories of Hell or a frighteningly immense void. Holding Sam in his arms, his breathing subconsciously falling in sync, it was like a perfect calm washed over him; the raging waters were stilled, and before he knew it, Dean had drifted into an easy, dreamless sleep.

\---

Sam’s consciousness crept up on him like a wildfire, low and steady and sweeping. As he came to, the light shining in from the top of the silo too much even through his closed eyelids, the first thing he noticed was the somehow dry and screaming ache in all of his muscles even as he lay still, and the pounding headache that seemed to flare if he even _thought_ about moving. He blinked his eyes open tentatively, trying to let them grow accustomed to the brightness. He came into himself a little more, and was finally able to think past all the soreness. The next thing he noticed was how perfectly _warm_ he was. And then the weight. He almost started as the realization dawned on him: there was a person behind him. And not just behind him, but _around_ him, lined up close, seamlessly hugging him, everything matched - ankles, knees, hips, back. There was an arm hanging lax over his waist, and a hand open on his chest, entangled with his own. For a moment, he thought he must still be hallucinating, but… it was so much more real than any of the tormenting visions he’d had the night before and… it was _comforting_.

Sam tilted his head back slightly to confirm what he already knew. _Dean_. It was Dean. His big brother was under a blanket with him on a shitty, small, busted up excuse for a bed in Bobby’s basement. Sam noticed then the gentle, warm puff of Dean’s breath on the skin of his neck and was suddenly aware that he was painfully hard, much more so than the average morning. His own breath quickened as he tried to take it all in and not panic. Dean seemed to still be sleeping. He didn’t want to shift and wake him up, especially not with the wicked, diamond-hard wood he was currently sporting.  Sam groaned inwardly. He wanted water desperately, and at least a handful of Tylenol; he wanted to will away the throbbing heat that was uncomfortably trapped in his jeans, and he sure as hell wanted to make that happen before Dean woke. But Sam also didn’t  want to move, couldn’t bring himself to lose this closeness to his brother. He remembered the last few occasions they slept tangled up in each other, years ago when Sam was still an awkward, gangly teenager and struggling to come to terms with the fact that he was without a doubt _in love_ with his brother. There’d been no other way to describe it - the way he felt the constant need to be as close to Dean as possible, wanting to do anything and everything to make his brother proud, make him smile, make him want to pull Sam in close and _please God_ never let him go. The more he understood it the more difficult it’d been to live with, and he’d done the only thing he could think of to save himself, and their relationship, from the mess that he was; he pushed Dean away. Eventually, he'd left.

He let himself revel - just for a moment - at the incredible comfort of his brother’s body, firm muscles under soft layers having slotted into place against his own, and the intoxicating feeling of the steady movement of Dean’s chest as he breathed against Sam’s back. Then he paled as the thought came to him - what had he done, what had he said last night in his withdrawal-addled state to bring Dean into the bed with him. He felt the fingers of panic tighten on his heart as he frantically tried to recall something - anything - from last night that might let him remember what he let slip or confess. He couldn’t focus anymore on what should have been the reassuring presence of his brother so close - he was still there, after all - and instead fought desperately to control his breathing which was getting away from him by the minute. How was he gonna explain- what could he possibly say- what did Dean think- _oh God, oh God, oh God_ -

“Sammy?” Sam almost choked at the sound of his brother’s sleep-rough voice gentle but close behind his ear. He froze, his whole body going rigid except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he tried to breathe.

Dean had blinked awake at the sound and feel of Sam’s hyperventilating. When he spoke his brother’s name, he felt Sam freeze like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and his breathing continued to be rapid and ragged.

“Sammy, hey, it’s all right, I’ve got you. Deep breaths, man. In through the nose, out through the mouth, okay?” Dean slid his hand over Sam’s heart and tapped out the counts with his finger like he used to after Sam’s nightmares. He modeled the breath too, letting Sam feel it in the movements of his own chest on Sam’s back. Slowly, Sam’s breathing started to match his brother’s. Dean just hoped Sam was too preoccupied with his panic attack to notice Dean’s dick which had swelled at his waking and was quite happily nested against the curve of Sam’s ass. Certainly Dean was trying not to think about it. He was only somewhat successful in that endeavour.

When Sam’s breathing had calmed to it’s normal cadence, Dean’s fingers were no longer tapping counts on his chest but instead rubbing gentle, soothing circles. Dean relaxed some, and _almost_ didn’t catch himself before nuzzling a little into the mess of Sam’s hair. Sam’s moment of distress past, Dean only enjoyed a moment of his own calm before starting to worry about the situation he found himself in. He was still hard, a steely length still pressing - undeniably obvious - against his brother, the stiffness persisting no doubt on account of the warm and plush resistance it found straining against Sam. There was no way Sam hadn’t noticed, but as of yet he still had said nothing. Dean decided if Sam wasn’t going to bring it up, he sure as hell wasn’t going to either.

“You okay, Sammy? Dean ventured gently, sincere but also as a distraction. Sam swallowed hard, and with difficulty.

“Yeah, I, uh, I guess.” His answer was strained and rough, his voice wrecked and hoarse from last night's screaming. Sam seemed to really weigh his words before speaking. “I feel like I’ve got the worst hangover of my life.”

Dean had been asking partly about what had set off the panic attack, but recognized with that answer that Sam wasn’t about to talk about it. Dean tried not to worry, having hoped Sam was past that part of the detox, but he was glad he could at least do something about the headache. Sam was likely really dehydrated, so water and Tylenol were definitely on the menu.

“Well, let me run upstairs, grab you some H2O and pills, arrite?” Dean was both relieved and disappointed to have to tear himself away from his little brother, but at least once he put some distance between his dick and Sam’s ass, it might finally calm down and they could move on. Dean started to pull his arm off Sam’s body and roll away towards the door. He didn’t get very far before-

“ _Dean_ …” Sam rolled back too, chasing Dean’s body like he wasn’t ready for the distance either. Sam hadn’t meant to be so transparent, hadn’t given himself permission to admit to the longing he’d always felt for his big brother, but the encouraging nudges from Dean’s dick twitching against him and then it’s sudden absence had short-circuited something in Sam’s brain. When he let Dean’s name escape his lips it was soft but unmistakably a whine, saying so much more that Sam didn’t know how else to say in words. And he couldn’t keep that look from his eyes - big, bright, _pleading_ \- when he gazed back at his brother. It was Dean’s turn to freeze; he understood all the tones in his little brother’s voice and while he had never heard this _particular_ one before, it’s meaning was crystal clear. _Dean, please. Don’t let go -- don’t leave me. Please, stay._

The force of the realization hit Dean like a tsunami coming down on him, knocking him back and stealing all the oxygen from his lungs in a blink. Sam… not only was he not _mad_ ,  irritated or put-off having woken to Dean practically fused to him, but Sam didn’t _want_ him to go. How could this- what did it- but all those years..? Dean’s mind raced as he finally remembered to breathe again and curled back towards the warmth of his baby brother.

“Sammy…” He barely managed to make the desperate sound, his breath catching as he tucked his body close into Sam’s and reached over him to undo the final restraint at Sam’s right wrist. As soon as the buckle was released and Sam’s hand was free, Sam twisted where he was - the friction _not_ helping Dean’s cock relax - and wiggled against his brother’s body until they were facing one another. Sam slipped his one leg between Dean’s knees, tangling them up like he was fourteen again, and tucked his arms between their chests, hands fisting the front of Dean’s shirt. When Dean’s arm fell back to Sam, reaching all the way around his waist to pull him in tightly, Sam honest-to-God whimpered, burying his face under Dean’s chin and trembling. Dean’s brain couldn’t keep up with what was happening. Whatever Dean had thought this was, it was not innocent anymore, not for him and _thank everything that was holy_ not for Sam either, whose own dick was stiff and hot and pressing into Dean’s leg, the feeling of it there threatening to overwhelm Dean completely. The sounds Sam made and the way he clutched at Dean like it was the difference between life and death were leaving Dean lightheaded and his body sparked wherever it met Sam’s, his dick definitely hard enough to hammer nails and jumping at even the smallest of Sam’s movements.

Dean couldn't think clearly enough to consider whether or not he should be giving in to this, much less be bothered by anything else. Not only could he not have quoted what it was exactly that Famine had said to him the night before that had left him so shaken, but for the first time since he came back topside Dean couldn’t feel the pain and darkness of Hell pulling at him, burning him up from the inside out. He was on fire now, certainly, but these flames were of a different sort entirely, paradoxically tightening him up and setting him loose all at once, somehow hot and shivery and perfect, not like anything he’d felt before not with any of the countless girls he’d tried to get lost in. Maybe Famine was right when he said Dean couldn’t ignore the darkness with food or drink, couldn’t find even temporary salvation with sex, but the thought struck him now that maybe he’d been looking in all the wrong places. In this perfect, unbelievable moment, with Sam’s hip teasing at his dick, Sam’s own cock straining against his thigh and his fingertips digging into his chest, his mouth open and wet, panting warmly at Dean’s neck, letting out small sounds that were about to undo his big brother completely, Dean felt _whole_. It was as though this coming together, desperate and spiralling out of control faster than Dean cared to admit, was obliterating everything else from Dean’s existence; every ache and pain, every agonizing and guilt-ridden memory of Hell, every bit of emptiness that ever plagued him, threatening to consume him forever, was blown away by the way Sam needed him right now, was giving in to him, and Dean couldn’t have stopped this even if he wanted to. The fire that swept in waves over his body now was not of Hell but of healing, and Dean was ready to let it burn. Dean was absolutely dizzy with it. All this time, he was within arm’s reach of his redemption; it had always been Sam.

His own breaths were starting to shorten and he tried in vain to regain control of his hands which were at that moment scrabbling shamelessly over all the edges and subtle valleys of Sam’s back. Dean let his fingers drag over the small at the base of it, starting to slide lower over the curve below, rucking up the back of Sam’s shirt to get at his skin. Sam gasped against Dean’s chest and tilted his head up, his lips connecting with Dean’s skin, laying gentle kisses and tentative little licks of his tongue that pulled Sam’s name as a gravelly moan from Dean’s throat.

Dean was beyond all coherent thought. He was trying to find words, faintly feeling like maybe they should be talking about this but, God help him, the words were not coming. He was utterly lost in the feeling of Sam’s lips wherever they fell and the minute, hurried rolls of his little brother’s hips into his own.

“De, _uhh_ , Dean,” Sam panted, still kissing at Dean’s neck, shifting to get higher and suck at Dean’s jaw. “ _Please_ , Dean,” he nipped a little then, and kissed his way to Dean’s chin. “Tell me,” he pulled his mouth off of Dean to catch his breath and swallowed hard. “Tell me it’s okay. Need you, Dean. I’ve always needed you…”

Dean’s eyes met Sam’s then, really for the first time since they’d woken all wrapped up in one another, before they’d apparently toppled together off the cliff of whatever this was, sweeping them and all rational thought away. Sam’s beautiful, ever-changing eyes were blown wide, black and glassy with such a mix of love and lust Dean almost forgot how to breathe. His eyes were pleading with Dean, begging him with words neither of them knew how to say, and suddenly Dean was frantically trying to review and rewrite their histories, to find elements of this that must have been there before if Sam was really, truly looking at him like that now. He must’ve been taking too long to answer - he didn’t mean to leave Sam hanging but _so much_ was going on and he was so blissfully lost in it all - because Sam’s body, which had been moving against him in a tiny, gentle rhythm, stilled in his arms and one of Sam’s hands let go of his shirt to trace a finger at the base of his jaw.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was small and shaking, uncertain, the sound of it finally disarming Dean completely, any ability to hold back or resist his brother dissolving like it never existed in the first place.

“God, Sammy, yeah it’s okay. _Jesus_. Need you, Sam. _Fuck_ , I need you, too.” His answer spilled from his lips, the words practically tripping over one another to get to Sam’s ears and eliminate all doubt. As he registered the relief on Sam’s face, Dean tore his hands away from his brother’s body and brought them up, taking his jaw in one and sliding the other into Sam’s hair, tugged his head back gently, and brought their lips together.

Dean tried to keep the kiss slow and controlled but before he knew it Sam had parted for him, sucked in his bottom lip and started worrying it between his teeth. Dean moaned unrestrained into Sam’s mouth and followed the sound with his tongue, exploring everything it could reach because it was some new, foreign part of Sam that Dean just had to know. With his hands at Sam’s face, one still knotted into his messy mane, Dean lacked the leverage to have resisted - not that he wanted to - and moments later, their lips still moving desperately together, Sam had rolled Dean onto his back. They were chest-to-chest, hips-to-hips, Sam’s knees bracketing Dean’s where they met the thin, creaky mattress, and their cocks both iron-hard and trapped in their jeans but pressing together in the sweetest, most tortuous kind of pleasure.

Immediately Dean enjoyed the increased freedom to his arms now that they weren’t awkwardly on their sides, and he let the hand in Sam’s hair roam a little, tugging here and rubbing there, keeping him right where he wanted him so he could keep licking into his mouth and tracing his now-swollen lips with his tongue, all the while giving his hips free reign to buck up into his brother, who was meeting him with his own sensuous, rolling rhythm. The other hand he let return to Sam’s back, blindly searching for the hem of his brother’s tee so he could start sliding it up. Sam whimpered when Dean started to pull at the shirt where it got stuck under his arms, not wanting to let his brother’s lips part from his. Dean turned his head to the side with a small breathy laugh, understanding but needing more of Sam’s skin and needing it _yesterday_.

“Sam, gotta get this off you. Need to see you, baby boy, please,” Sam shuddered at the endearment and Dean definitely noticed, grinning. Dean pushed at Sam gently and he took the hint, propping himself up on his hands, and then Dean lifted the shirt up over his head, Sam sliding his arms out one after the other so he was still hovering above his big brother. The shirt was tossed haphazardly aside because Dean couldn’t take his eyes off Sam for even a second. They took him in quickly, all that tanned, baby-smooth skin clinging to those beautiful muscles, all taut as he kept himself up, the deep cut of the vee at his hip bones dragging Dean’s eyes lower to where - _fuck_ \- he could see the tip of Sam’s cock where it peaked at the top of his jeans, wet and glistening, and a ripple went through Dean’s body at the sight of it.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice, still ragged, said his name gently, bringing Dean’s eyes back to his brother’s face and away from where he had been open-mouth staring at Sam’s dick. “Your shirt, too. Please, Dean. I wanna,” Sam was still panting, couldn’t stop himself from licking his tongue out across his bottom lip as his eyes bored into Dean’s. “Need to _feel_ you, Dean.”

It was a sentiment Dean understood.

“Yeah, Sammy, okay,” the words came out breathy and Dean made quick work of tugging his own shirt off and casting it away. Somewhere in all this Sam’s pounding headache and Dean’s tender ribs, the bruises now varied and bright across his skin, had all but faded into the background. Sam’s exhale at the sight of his brother - somehow new, reverent, as if they hadn’t seen each other in various states of undress a hundred times before - was intoxicating to Dean. It went straight to his head - both of them - and he couldn’t stop himself. He propped himself up on one elbow and with the other arm snaked around Sam’s back, he lifted his head and without preamble took Sam’s right nipple into his mouth.

“Fuck, Dean, oh God,” Sam moaned in response to the hot wetness of Dean’s mouth, and his hips started to roll into Dean’s again, rubbing their cocks together as best they could, silently cursing the fact they were both still wearing pants. Dean’s mouth was gentle at first, kisses and easy sucks, then he started nibbling at the skin as it stiffened against his tongue and the sounds it forced out of Sam were sending jolts of electric shocks low in Dean’s stomach and into his dick. He was so close already and they were only half-undressed, barely started. There was so much Dean wanted - _needed_ \- to do but Sam made him feel like a teenager again and he was dimly aware he had no idea how much longer he could realistically last. When Sam’s moans had turned into whines, Dean left one last tender kiss on his now reddened, spit-soaked nipple and started in on the other. Sam was grinding into Dean a little more frantically now, and Dean could feel him start to shudder with the effort of keeping himself propped up. When Dean was satisfied with his work, he kissed at the nipple one last time before letting his hands squeeze on Sam’s hips, telling him to still. Shuddering, panting, Sam stopped moving and looked down at his brother who was gazing back up at him with a provocative smile, bright pink lips puffy and shining.

“Gotta slow down, Sammy. I can’t,” Dean’s eyes fluttered as he lost control for a moment, thrusting his hips up slowly and dragging them down Sam’s length. “Wanna touch you, Sam, gotta see you. Not gonna last though, _fuck_. Please, baby,” Dean looked almost pained as he tried to fight the urge to keep rutting against his brother. Sam shook his head in frantic agreement and he pulled his knees up to straddle Dean and sit back on his thighs, reaching for the button on his jeans. Dean groaned as he watched his brother’s long, capable fingers fumble to get his pants undone. Dean couldn’t keep his hands from reaching down to his own zipper, quickly shoving his own pants and boxers down his hips so that his cock was left exposed on his belly, swaying and dragging lines of precome across his skin. When Sam was finally free, his pants pushed down, fly as wide open as it would go, and his boxers tucked down under his balls, both Winchesters sucked in a breath at the sight of the other.

If it was possible, the brilliant flush in Sam’s cheeks deepened a shade or two, and his mouth watered as his eyes fell on Dean’s dick where it lay back against him, making a mess of his stomach and darkening the light blonde hairs that trailed there. Sam couldn’t remember a time before he had started thinking about Dean when he touched himself; he lost track of how many times he’d come imagining his brother’s gorgeous cock, in his hands or God help him in his mouth, but somehow it was more breathtaking than he had ever dreamed it.

“Jesus, Dean…” Sam’s voice was awe-filled and Dean was surprised to find it made him feel a little shy. He brought a hand up to Sam’s face and let his thumb rub over the apple of his cheek.

“You, too, Sammy. God, _look_ at you,” Dean shimmied under his brother’s weight and sat up, leaning forward so their foreheads were touching but they were both looking down at their dicks, now so close, which seemed to almost instinctively strain towards each other. Dean lifted his chin and brought his mouth to Sam’s, kissing him deeply and savouring the feeling of their tongues as they danced together. Sam’s hips started rocking where he sat on Dean’s lap and Dean didn’t waste another second. He collected both their cocks in his hand - Sam gasping into his mouth at the first touch of his fingers - and stood them up between them. He slid his thumb over their tips, collecting the warm precome that was leaking from them both, mixing it together and wiping it down their lengths, getting them plenty wet. Sam’s hips were stuttering as he fucked into Dean’s hand, rubbing against the velvet hardness of Dean’s dick where he was held against it, and both Winchesters were blown away by how incredible this felt.

“Oh God, Dean, oh God, _fuck_ ,” the last word was dragged out of Sam’s mouth, breathy and barely there. Their foreheads still rested together and their mouths were open, lips bumping but too distracted to really kiss, the warm air of their breaths passing back and forth between them.

“Shit, Sammy, yeah, _uh_ ,” Dean’s vocabulary was diminishing by the minute. Sam, however, managed a genius thought, taking one of his hands from Dean’s hips to the warm pearls of precome at their constantly leaking heads, slicking some over his palm before joining Dean’s hand, thrusting their dicks together and enveloping them completely.

“ _Sammy_ , feel so good, baby boy, fuck, _please_ ,” Dean couldn’t care less about how needy he sounded. He was losing it, and fast. His toes were starting to curl, his balls drawing up close to his body and an intense electric heat was coiling low in his stomach. Sam’s grip tightened and he moaned loudly at Dean’s words.

“Dean, I’m gonna- _uh_ , wanna make you come, big brother-” Sam didn’t get all of the last word out before his body shut him down and went still, his vision whiting out at the edges while he tried to keep fucking into their hands as his orgasm took him over. Dean was barely a second behind Sam when his orgasm hit him hard, making him cry out with a sound he’d never made before in his life. Thick, white ropes splattered their chests and chins, all rhythm lost as they came together, the intermittent squeezes and tugs of their hands milking out more and sending aftershocks that sizzled through them both. Their hands slowed as they eased down, both flushed and panting, smiles on their faces that could stun a blind man. Their bodies were starting to go lax, their cocks, too, and they nuzzled into each other’s faces with sloppy kisses.

Sam was nosing along Dean’s jaw, nudging his head up and a little to the side for better access. Dean went along easily, giving way and exposing his throat to Sam’s demands, and the next thing he knew Sam was lapping at the ribbons of come that were painted there.

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean’s body shuddered and he could feel Sam smiling against his skin as he made some small, happy sound that Dean decided he wanted to hear as often as possible from here on in. Sam slid a finger through the mess on Dean’s stomach and looked right into Dean’s eyes, grinning, as he brought it to his mouth and sucked it in. Dean moaned low in his throat and felt his dick twitch where it lay soft against him, valiantly trying to show its interest in what Sam was doing.

“Sa-aaam,” Dean was grinning, too. “You’re killing me here, kiddo.”

“Yeah?” Sam only grinned all the more, his dimples deepening, and looked mighty pleased with himself. He leaned in and kissed his brother, slipped in past those incredible lips and Dean jolted at the slightly salty, bitter taste of them on Sam’s tongue. He kissed Sam back hungrily, though he was feeling heavy in the afterglow, and started to slide back down to the bed and tried to bring Sam with him.

“Just a sec, Dean,” Sam hummed into his mouth before ending their kiss. Dean watched from his back as Sam leaned over the edge of the bed and grabbed the closest shirt to clean them up. He wiped them both off and replaced the now soiled tee to the floor. Then he tucked them both back gently into their boxers, did up their pants and pulled the blanket, which had been kicked down to the end of the bed, up and over them both, cuddling into Dean’s side.

As Sam settled in, his head on Dean’s shoulder and his body slotted between his side and the arm Dean had under his neck, hand tracing lightly up and down Sam’s arm where it draped across Dean’s chest, Dean couldn’t remember having ever felt so calm and at peace in his entire life. His heart felt whole - he had never understood how truly broken it had felt before - and he felt warm and easy in a way that was hitherto completely unfamiliar to him. He sighed happily and buried his face in the hair at the top of Sam’s head, planting a firm kiss there for good measure.

“Dean…?” Sam’s voice was small and hesitant, a little muffled against his brother’s body. Dean knew what he was asking. They had never needed multitudes of words to understand one another. The heat of the moment was fading away and taking Sam’s confidence with it. He was asking was this okay.

“Yeah, Sammy.” It wasn’t a demand for the next question but rather the answer to the one Sam hadn't spoken aloud. Dean leaned forward a little to kiss at Sam’s forehead, and brought the arm at his side to Sam’s face, tucking back some errant strands of hair and ghosting his fingertips over his brows, temple and jaw, just soft and reassuring. Sam hummed a little and relaxed, smiling into the skin of Dean’s chest. Sleep was pulling at them both. Then, somewhere in his drowsy thoughts, Dean remembered.

“Hey, Sammy, you want me to grab you some Tylenol, ‘fore you pass out?” His eyes were still closed and his words were thick and lazy, but it was a genuine offer. He felt Sam’s head shake.

“S’ok, Dean. I’m uh,  feeling pretty good…” Sam’s voice trailed off, consciousness slipping away from him. It was Dean’s turn to hum a little, and he breathed easy, joining his brother in sleep.

\---

Bobby made his way around his kitchen like a zombie. On auto-pilot, he managed to get a pot of coffee going and as the smell of it started to trickle into his brain, he let his eyes open a little wider. While the life-giving substance bubbled and percolated on the counter, Bobby stood and stretched, groaning, creaking, and cracking and feeling pretty damn old. He hadn’t slept much and certainly not well, worrying over his boys more than usual. He, too, heard echoes of Sam’s anguished cries if he shut his eyes and he couldn’t get the broken look on Dean’s face out of his mind, either. He leaned on the counter and waited for the pot to fill completely before pouring himself a large mug. When he turned around, he just barely managed to avoid tossing his arms up and spilling hot coffee all over himself.

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Bobby exclaimed in surprise and frustration, his free hand clutching his chest. “One of these days you’re gonna end me, Feathers.”

Castiel had never left Bobby’s, still basically tethered to his charges - the Winchesters - as always, but he knew the humans liked to feel like they were on their own, so he stayed invisible more often than not. He had, however, just then manifested at Bobby’s kitchen table.

“Apologies,” Cas said, looking intently at Bobby as he sat down across from him. “That is not my intention.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Next time try knockin’ wouldya.”

“I will do that.” Cas stated plainly. He sat quietly for a moment while Bobby sipped at his coffee, eyeing him over the mug.

Castiel opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he tilted his head slightly to the right, his eyes looking far away like he was elsewhere. Bobby kept taking in his coffee, shaking his head a little to himself at the moment’s reflection that an _angel_ was sitting at his breakfast table. That might not ever stop being bizarre, even for them.

Cas had shown himself to Bobby because he had had something to discuss, but sitting there his thoughts were pulled away. His attention was drawn to the Winchesters, whom he had been quietly monitoring while they slept, both of them surprisingly relaxed and calm, the colours of their thoughts uncharacteristically soft and gentle. Cas was pleased that somehow after the events of last evening they had managed to encounter restful sleep, but suddenly Cas was aware they were no longer sleeping. The colours had come to life, reflecting their wakefulness rather quickly, and their colourscapes were not like Cas had even seen them before. Both boys were iridescent, glowing, and like mirrors of the other. The matching golden hues were blindingly bright in Cas’ mind, so much so that he had to withdraw a little to see the fuller picture. They were both of them overwhelmed with the other, and, underneath the blazing aurelian light, all colours but the ones that meant _Sam_ to Dean, and _Dean_ to Sam, were no where to be found, like somehow they’d been purified of everything else. A smile crept onto the angel’s face, his heart warm with the thought that neither Winchester was suffering at the moment, something he wasn’t sure he’d seen in a long, long time. The lights and colours grew, impossibly, even brighter and moved and danced about in such a way that-

Cas’ eyes grew wide. He understood then; he was properly interpreting the lightscape for what it was, what was happening between the brothers. He only hesitated a moment before he felt the rightness of it in his gut. It dawned on him now, those threads of golden light they shared could only be those of soulmates, evidence of one soul split between two bodies, cast apart by Heaven so on Earth they might be rejoined and do God’s work with the strength found in their reunion. Only for _very_ special cases. Cas didn’t know of many siblings sharing a soul, it must be very rare, but this element to their relationship didn’t surprise him. It seemed like only a natural progression, the soul between them longing to be whole again and so, inevitably, Cas imagined it was always going to come to this. And seeing how it healed them both, Cas had only wished he’d understood sooner, thought to encourage them. Not that it mattered now. Despite everything it seemed, they found their way back together all on their own. Cas couldn’t stop smiling.

Bobby had finished his coffee while his heavenly friend had drifted off and returned to the counter to pour some more for himself and a couple mugs for the boys. He had set his med kit at the top of the stairs before turning in last night to remind himself to lay some caring on both Sam _and_ Dean in the morning. The three cups of coffee full, Bobby turned back to Cas, not able to help chuckling at the goofy-looking grin on the angel’s face.

“Cas, what are you even doing here? Didja scare the crap outta me this morning for any reason in particular or what?”

Cas blinked as he took his focus away from the brothers.

“Oh, uh, no. I had come to check on Sam. And Dean, for that matter.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t seen Dean yet this morning. Reckon he’s gonna be mighty sore from last night and sleeping on the floor to boot. I was about to go down with some coffee, ya might as well come, too.” Bobby started to reach for the mugs but Cas shot up from his seat and the movement was startling.

“No!” It came out more forceful than he meant it. Cas was not exceptionally well-versed in human interactions but he did understand that most humans preferred privacy when it came to what was going on in the panic room right now. “I mean, uh, no. Bobby, the boys sleep still, I can… sense that. They seem… well. Better to, uh, let them sleep.”

Bobby’s eyebrows went up as he listened to Cas. He pondered him for a moment.

“Well, alright then. Aren’t you just full of surprises,” Bobby said finally. “What the hell else can you ‘sense’?” He poured the coffees that had been for Sam and Dean back into the pot and returned to his seat at the table, still eyeing Castiel and waiting for an answer.

“Just what I need to,” was the cryptic answer he got, and then with a rustling he was alone again. Bobby rolled his eyes and went back to his second cup.

\---

It was mid afternoon before the boys made it upstairs. The aches and stiffness from the day before and the night’s trials had settled back in for them both, but those pains weren’t at the forefront of either of their minds. They’d started their day wrapped up in each other, skin-to-skin, and woken up slowly, kissing languidly into sleep-sour mouths and letting their hands roam all over as if to say _hello_ , and _there you are_ , and _finally, we’re here_. They were both more than a little worked up by the time they realized they shouldn’t keep pushing their luck, surprised already that Bobby hadn’t come a-knocking. Dean had gone upstairs first, padding around quietly and shirtless, his jizz-soaked shirt wrapped up in his hand. When he didn’t see Cas or Bobby from the top of the stairs, he headed straight for the shower and some clean clothes. Sam did the same, starting upstairs at the sound of the water shutting off. He smiled when he met Dean in the hallway between the bathroom and their bedroom, gleefully leaning in to kiss him, a little giddy at the notion that he could do that. Dean kissed him back, smiling into his mouth, and gave him a gentle smack on the ass when he broke the kiss and left Sam to get cleaned up.

Dean made his way to the kitchen, the lingering scent of coffee calling to him. He saw the pot was nearly empty and set to work on a fresh one, knowing Sam would be jonesing for some, too. He couldn’t begin to stifle the smile that spread on his face while he worked, just at the thought of his brother, of last night, of Sam wet and soaped up in the shower at that very moment.

“Well, aren’t you surprisingly chipper,” Bobby’s usual gruff was preceded by his heavy footfall as he entered his study at the far end of the room, a stack of books held in both hands as he raised his eyebrows at Dean. Dean wasn’t startled, having heard him approach, but he had to actively take his thoughts away from Sam to look over at Bobby.

“Good morning to you, too, Bobby.” Dean chuffed, smirking, and turned his attention back to the task at hand, digging a couple mugs out of the cupboard.

“For starters, it’s afternoon. And I just mean, you look surprisingly well rested for a guy who slept on a concrete floor outside a silo where his kid brother detoxed from demon blo- Dean, are you humming AC/DC?”

Dean blinked at Bobby, setting the mugs down on the counter in front of the pot where the fresh coffee was busy dripping away. Huh. He _was_ humming. Shook Me All Night Long. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Yeah, I guess I am. What’s it to ya?” He gave Bobby a look. What, he wasn’t allowed to be cheerful? Upstairs the sounds of the shower stopped.

“Nothin’, Dean,” Bobby laughed. “Don’t get me wrong, happy to see you in a good mood. Just. Surprised is all. How’s the kid doin’ anyway?”

Dean cleared his throat at Bobby’s question and turned back to the coffee before answering, but not before Bobby swore he saw a flush creep onto Dean’s cheeks.

“Sam’s, uh, doing great, actually. Made it through the night in one piece, got a killer headache to show for it but… Yeah. He’s past the worst, I think.”

When Dean turned back to face Bobby, leaning on the counter and blissfully sipping at his hot coffee, his smile was so blinding and his eyes were so bright Bobby almost felt suspicious. But he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. So he ignored the thought and shrugged a little to himself instead.

“Well, I am glad to hear that.” Bobby went about sorting through the books strewn across on his desk.

Dean’s eyes drifted past his mug to the staircase where the telltale creak of the second highest step announced his brother was about to join them. Sam was fresh-faced, his towel-dried hair shaggy and damp about his head, and wearing a grey v-neck and track pants which indicated he wasn’t planning leaving Bobby’s any time today. Dean just let his eyes pass over Sam, and indulged without guilt in the thought of how _beautiful_ his little brother was.

Sam caught his eyes as he walked into the kitchen, and it was like he knew what Dean was thinking. He smiled a little bashfully and took the mug of coffee that Dean held out for him. Dean smiled even larger, _loving_ that the same Sam who’d been staring him down while sucking come off his fingers was playing shy with him now. Sam’s hand brushed his brother’s when he took the mug and Dean loved what that did to him, too.

Bobby looked up from the open book in front of him and watched his boys, noticing the exchange of smiles he couldn’t quite place having seen before. Sam leaned back against the counter next to his brother, their shoulders touching, and they both sipped at their coffees in silence. Bobby watched them intently for a moment, his book forgotten, and thought they looked relaxed and somehow less weighed down in a way that made Bobby ache a little for when they were just kids, carefree - relatively, anyway - and light.

“Sam, it’s good to see you up and about. Glad to hear you’re… on the mend.” Bobby caught Sam’s eye and the younger Winchester smiled at him.

“Yeah, Bobby, thanks. I’m uh, feeling okay.” His pronounced dimples had Bobby thinking he was feeling better than that. In a moment of nostalgia-fueled inspiration, Bobby thought it would be nice to make meatloaf for dinner - something he always used to do the boys when they were growing up.

“Ya know what,” Bobby started, leaving his desk. “Now that you’re both up and good, I’m gonna run into town for some stuff for dinner, grab us a few movies. We got nowhere to be tonight, okay?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a sideways glance before looking back at Bobby.

“Yeah, all right, Bobby. Sounds like a plan.” Dean took another drink of his coffee as he watched Bobby grab his jacket off the hook by the door, and he leaned a little further into Sam.

“You two stay outta trouble. Be back in a bit.”

“‘Course, Bobby. ” Sam grinned as he pushed back into Dean, watching the front door close.

Sam and Dean stood quietly where they were, shifting their weight as they leaned against each other, listening for the sound of Bobby’s truck as it took off down the gravel driveway. As the rumble started to fade away, they downed the rest of their coffees. Dean reached for Sam’s cup and replaced them both on the counter behind him. When he turned around, Sam was standing in his space, had slipped his one foot to the inside edge of Dean’s so that one of Dean’s legs was between his, and in the next moment he pressed fully against his brother, slipping his arms around and up under the back of his shirt, tucking his head down to burrow his face at Dean’s neck. He breathed him in, all clean and fresh and _Dean_.

“Hi,” he sighed into the soft skin under his brother’s ear. Dean let out a contented breath in return, hugging Sam to him tightly.

“Hi yourself,” Dean’s voice was gentle, and he brought one of his hands up to the back of Sam’s head, let it card through his still damp hair. His brother pushed into his hand a little, like a cat, and hummed as he started planting kisses on Dean wherever he could reach. Dean happily tilted his head to expose more of his neck, letting Sam keep kissing, nipping, and licking at him however he pleased, his hand still buried in his brother’s hair.

“God, Sam,” Dean’s breath was getting short already, Sam now moving his lips and teeth down Dean’s jaw towards his chin. He could feel Sam smiling against him. “Hey, c’mere,” Dean brought his other hand up to Sam’s face, used the other to tug him back so he could look at him. Dean looked into his brother’s eyes and knew immediately that they were dangerously close to chick-flick moment territory. Sam’s smile was that of the adoring kid who followed Dean like a shadow and needed him like air; his eyes were bright, and shining, and _Christ_ seeing them like that made Dean ache in all the best ways, his heart full and all his cracks sealing up. _How_ could he not have seen this before? It was suddenly the only way he could live. “Sam…”

He brought their lips together in a kiss, with all the tenderness and things he wanted Sam to know but couldn’t bring himself to say. Sam let Dean lead, let Dean enter his mouth in his own time, and sucked gently at his tongue when he did finally push inside. He pressed Dean into the counter, trying to drown in their closeness, wanting to touch Dean everywhere at once and for always, to somehow make up for all the years they had foolishly kept each other at arm’s length. He _loved_ Dean, he couldn't remember a time when he didn’t, and Sam let his mouth and his hands tell him so. Sam felt like so much of his life had been out of his control, like he’d been tossed on stormy seas, smothered by obsidian clouds, trying to navigate through monsters, demons, even Hell on Earth with a compass he could barely see for the darkness. Dean had always been his anchor, the only rock to which he could hold fast, but denying this part of themselves had somehow cast into shadow everything they could do, everything they could be for each other. Now, as Sam drank in his brother’s breath through yielding lips, leaning warmly against him with each of their hearts beating out an echo of the other, Sam was lit up; his whole world ignited before him with a light that felt at once illuminating and healing, showing him the way and fixing him in ways he hadn’t known he’d needed. And all that light came from Dean, his big brother, Dean who he finally understood was _his_. While Sam was no closer to knowing how they were going to beat the Devil, he felt safer and more secure than ever before, locked in the haven of Dean’s arms. For the first time since Lucifer made it topside, Sam wasn’t afraid. He knew _together_ they would find a way. In saving each other, they would save the world. They would be whole, and they would be _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> Also the title is without a doubt borrowed from the Cold Play song of the same name. One of many songs I am incapable of listening to without thinking about Sam and Dean.


End file.
